


Pencil Skirt

by daystarsearcher



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daystarsearcher/pseuds/daystarsearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate wears a pencil skirt. Osgood appreciates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pencil Skirt

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Who does not belong to me, nor does the poem "Goblin Market" by Christina Rosetti. (I don't generally think of Osgood as a poetry person, but I feel like she probably encountered this one during her intense teenage "ha ha, I am obviously completely straight, I just happen to consume a lot of genre fiction with attractive and oddly close female characters" phase.)

Kate is wearing a pencil skirt, slate grey until it hits the light and then it becomes burnished silver; the silk clings to long, slender legs with just the right curve to the hip and the calf. As she walks, the hem slides against pale skin that looks impossibly smooth, the faintest rustle as it grips her tight and then yields to her strength. Each movement she makes in that skirt is firm, precise, articulated, speaks to a poise and a power like an unquenchable fire just below the surface, and Osgood could watch her cross a room all day.

Kate sinks back into the cushions of the sofa next to her date, giving a low moan as she slips her feet out of her heels, letting them drop to the floor. Her eyes slide halfway shut as she stretches, long-limbed and languorous, the tension slipping away from her body like water through a sieve. “My turn, I believe. Unless you’re not up for Roger Corman?”

“Anything’s fine,” Osgood says softly, nestling into Kate’s side. Her right arm slides around the older woman’s waist, her left hand somehow finding itself on Kate’s knee even though she was really just intending the arm. It’s so hard not to touch Kate, now that she can. She is squeezing her thighs together tight with how badly she wants Kate right now. She can feel the heat radiating off her skin and through thin cloth, and she smells so damn good, like coffee and fresh soap and a touch of good clean sweat, but she can wait, right? Good things come to those who wait, and if her thumb is making little circles against Kate’s soft skin and hinting at dipping under the backs of her knees where she knows Kate is sensitive, that’s just an affectionate gesture and nothing to do with the way her mouth is watering, and she can stop anytime. She can be patient. Probably.

Kate makes a low, pleased hum in the back of her throat as her lover tucks her head against her shoulder, and she trails the tips of her fingers up her arm in a way that makes Osgood tremble. “‘A Bucket of Blood,’ then? Or ‘House of Usher’ is a classic.”

“Whatever’s good for you is good for me.” Oh no, was that a double entendre? Osgood blushes. “I mean—it’s your turn. To enjoy yourself. And I always enjoy myself when you enjoy yourself.” Oh no, it’s getting worse. “So. Ah. You choose.” 

It’s not the smoothest reply she’s ever given, but judging by the slight smirk on Kate’s face, the older woman doesn’t mind. Her fingers dance over the bare skin of Osgood’s wrist, slip under the cuff of her button-up shirt to tease lightly over her pulse point. Her voice is a low rumble, velvet-soft and fondly amused. “Osgood, if you want things, you should learn to just ask.”

“Ask what?” Osgood says automatically, because concealment is a habit long-held when it comes to emotion and attraction and what she dares to want, and there are days it feels more than difficult to break.

“To skip your cinematic re-education and get right to the snogging.”

Osgood doesn’t have to be told twice. She kisses Kate, and the eagerness with which Kate responds has Osgood clambering into her lap to straddle those silk-sheathed hips, her hands greedy for the touch of every texture, the silk of the skirt and the cotton of the blouse as she runs her hands up Kate’s body and then the smoothness of Kate’s skin as she cups her jaw, leaning deep into the kiss, into the heat and surety and hunger of it. Kate’s lips are soft and warm and as fervent as Osgood’s own, and she makes the most wonderful sounds as she kisses, all quiet little sighs and pleased hums and half cut-off moans. Kate’s hands are at her shoulders, kneading the muscles there with undisguised desire, and then tangling in her hair, unraveling her braid—Kate’s hair skims over Osgood’s fingers, and Kate’s pulse is thrumming under her fingertips, and Kate’s body is an endless delight under hers, the curves and the softness and the strength and the warmth of her and the way they fit together, Osgood rocking her hips gently against her before she even realizes she is doing it. 

The thing about touching Kate is that it is impossible to touch just one part of Kate, because each and every part of Kate is perfect and even though the part you are touching right then is perfect so are all the other parts you are _not_ touching, so it would be a tragedy, no, a crime, no, a physical _impossibility_ to keep her hands from roaming all over Kate, each and every exquisite angle and curve of her, the way she arches her back and shifts her hips and the sounds she makes, each different depending on where you touch her, a complex medley of sharp gasps and sighs that Osgood is determined to orchestrate with her fingertips trailing down her neck, brushing the side of her breast, somehow always returning to her legs, the suppleness of them, the grace, the way the hem of that pencil skirt keeps sliding further and further upwards—

Kate’s hands have meanwhile discovered the buttons of Osgood’s shirt, and her mouth has abandoned Osgood’s to lick and nip along her neck, dipping down to the hollow of her throat as the last of the shirt buttons slips free, and then her mouth is traveling further, lips and tongue exploring the hollow between Osgood’s breasts as her agile hands dispose of Osgood’s bra, and there is only a second of cool air against Osgood’s skin before Kate is nuzzling at her breasts, and the whimpers that jerk their way out of Osgood’s mouth as she throws back her head are half the physical sensation of Kate’s lips and teeth and tongue, and half the picture Kate makes with her cheeks flushed and her mouth greedy on Osgood’s flesh—Osgood can see this even with her eyes closed, and it is so startlingly erotic, the idea that she is worth someone’s greed, that she is wanted, that she is loved—

She is drunk with touching Kate; her hands are back on Kate’s legs, the hem rucked up to her thighs, and Osgood’s thumb slips under the hem, ghosts over the soft cotton of her pants. Kate moans against her skin, her hips bucking up into Osgood’s involuntarily. This much they’ve already done, this much Osgood already knows is all right—is more than alright, from the way Kate jerks against her, swallows with a sound like there’s a quarry full of gravel stuck in her throat, her hands clenching around Osgood’s hips as she lets out a ragged sigh that ghosts over the younger woman’s nipple and the bite marks on her collarbone. Osgood keeps the pace slow, deliberate; keeps the touch light. She wants this to build slow, she wants to make Kate want this more than anything, she wants Kate to need this, she wants—

Osgood swallows hard at the thought of what she really wants.

Kate has been chivalry itself these past few weeks they’ve been together, making sure Osgood is comfortable every step of the way by letting her set the pace. Which is considerate and wonderful and one of the reasons Osgood fell in love with her in the first place, but is also frustrating, because it means that Osgood is always the one asking for things the first time, and asking people for things is _scary_ , dammit, more terrifying than Cybermen or Daleks or Autons or anything, because they might say no, because they might laugh at you, because—because—

“Osgood?” Kate’s voice is soft, gentle as her lips as they press a kiss against her cheek. “Are you all right?”

Her eyes are tender, concerned. She is the most beautiful thing Osgood has ever seen.

She might say no, but she will never laugh at Osgood, or do anything to hurt her.

_If you want things, you should learn to just ask._

For Kate, she can be brave.

“Yeah,” she answers. Screws her courage to the sticking place. “I was just wondering, if we could—if I could—” as many times as she’s thought about this request, you think she’d have come up with some way to phrase it. She slides off Kate’s lap instead, sinking to her knees in front of her, trusting that this says it clearly enough. She looks up at her, eyes hopeful. “Can I? I mean, may I?”

For a second, Kate looks like she has been hit with a brick.

Then she reaches out to her; her hands are shaking so very slightly, barely enough to feel, as she tucks a strand of hair over Osgood’s ear. Her smile is a complex equation adding up to something hopeful, but slightly dazed, slightly trepidatious. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah.” Osgood ducks her chin a little, a shy gesture, but also a way for her to brush a kiss against Kate’s fingers. “I really want to.”

Kate swallows. Her cheeks are flushed. That smile still there, longing but hesitant. She strokes the side of Osgood’s face, and Osgood can see the exact moment she makes her decision. 

“These might get in the way,” she says softly, tracing her finger over the frame of Osgood’s glasses, and Osgood lets her slide them off her face and set them on the arm of the sofa. 

#

Osgood presses kisses that start quick and shy at Kate’s knee and grow longer and more sure as she reaches Kate’s thighs. The muscles of Kate’s legs are trembling under her lips and she can feel electricity singing down her nerves. Her hands slide up behind, hiking up the pencil skirt as far as it can go without undoing the zip at the back, stroking the backs of Kate’s thighs and savoring the unsteady inhale that is her reply. She nuzzles the already damp knickers before her fingers peel them away—and there’s another opportunity to savor the touch of all the soft skin; Kate’s smooth as marble, a gleaming Pieta from hip to toe, and Osgood could worship here forever—and there’s more than a flicker of pride as her hands find how wet Kate is for her, how ready. She did that. She made Kate want her. _Her._

Osgood’s never really thought of herself as a particularly sexual person before, but god she’s turned on now—she’s been imagining this for the past three weeks, and it’s been so good, those nights after she’s kissed Kate goodbye and hurried to her bedroom, her mind on Kate’s legs and skin, her hand down her pants; but the fantasy’s a black and white film compared to the here-and-now immediate color and heat and heady scent of Kate, the way she squirms and the small sound that escapes her as Osgood gives an exploratory lick—the pencil skirt rustles, as high as it will go but still with a strong grip around Kate’s hips, pressing her thighs tight around Osgood’s face as the younger woman tastes her—

All this has Osgood’s mouth watering, her heart pounding, her pulse like a bass drum between her legs, oh god she wants to touch herself between her legs but then she would have to stop touching Kate and she can never stop touching Kate, her skin is a contact high and her taste is nectar and ambrosia, pomegranates from Hades, goblin fruit—Osgood half-recalls a line of poetry, _with clasping arms and cautioning lips, with tingling cheeks and fingertips…_

What she feels is everything, and it is nothing next to what she is making Kate feel, what she hopes she is making Kate feel—Osgood might not be an expert, but she’s hoping enthusiasm will cover a multitude of sins, and her powers of observation are holding her in good stead, she’s adjusting the speed and the angle and pressure with every piece of feedback, every murmur and whimper and bit-lip gasp, each tremble and shiver and shift, the way Kate’s hands keep tangling in the hair at the back of her neck as if they are helpless to do anything else—Osgood kisses and licks, dips and delves, retreats and then advances, teases closer and closer to Kate’s clit until the older woman is finally making a sound that could very nearly be called a whine, and then Osgood flicks out her tongue—

Kate comes with a cry, her hands clenching against Osgood’s neck and shoulders.

#

Osgood’s perfectly content to stay right where she is, but Kate tugs at her shoulders until she climbs back into her lover’s lap where Kate can give her a grateful kiss, long and sincere.

“That was okay?” Osgood asks when she’s let back up for air.

“More than okay,” Kate murmurs against her lips. Her fingers have found the top button of Osgood’s trousers, and are twisting it back and forth in a considering fashion. Her voice is husky. “My knees can’t handle the floor out here, but I would very much like to take you into the bedroom and return the favor.”

“Could we cuddle a bit first?” Osgood asks. _Two requests in one day,_ she thinks. This is practically Herculean levels of bravery.

“Certainly,” Kate says.

And so they do.

#

And much later, when Osgood falls asleep halfway through ‘House of Usher,’ Kate doesn’t take it personally.


End file.
